The single most rewarding thing about the summer and fall of 2004 was that I was doing a ton of music writing—reviews, features, and interviews for several local and regional magazines. In my attempt to become the next great rock critic, I read a ton of music writing by writers I admired. One of my favorites, of course, was Lester Bangs. Here’s an amazing bit that I culled from one of his collected works books:
“I’ll probably never produce a masterpiece, but so what? I feel I have a Sound aborning, which is my own, and that Sound if erratic is still my greatest pride, because I would rather write like a dancer shaking my ass to boogaloo inside my head, and perhaps reach only readers who like to use books to shake their asses, than to be or write for the man cloistered in a closet somewhere reading Aeschylus while this stupefying world careens crazily past his waxy windows toward its last raving sooty feedback pirouette.”
Do you have goosebumps?! I certainly do.
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